The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

This was this month’s selection for our “Literary Lush” book club, which reads a classic horror book every October. We also dress up based on a theme from the book, our hosts decorated their house to the nines, and we have a good time. 

One of the things I enjoy about this club is that I end up reading interesting books that I never would have discovered on my own. While I do have a couple of other Shirley Jackson books on my list, I had, believe it or not, never read anything by Shirley Jackson. Not even “The Lottery,” which it seems is part of the standard literature curriculum. Speaking of that short story, my wife insisted that I read it before our meeting, so that I would know what everyone else was referencing. 

The Haunting of Hill House is the quintessential haunted house story, with so many recognizable tropes: the house that seems to have a mind of its own, a dark family backstory, a spooky housekeeper, places of unnatural cold, thumpings and bangings in the night, and so on. It wasn’t the first of its kind. That place of honor likely belongs to Edgar Alan Poe’s story, “The Fall of the House of Usher,” which also told of a house with a bad personality. The gothic story existed long before that, of course. In the European tradition, it was usually a castle, not an old Victorian-style house, that was haunted. Tales of apparitions and monsters date back millennia. But it was Poe who brought them together into the recognizable American form. (For those counting, Poe also originated the detective story, with “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”)

While Shirley Jackson’s novel cannot be considered groundbreaking, it is widely acknowledged as one of the finest of the genre. I have to agree with that sentiment. The writing is outstanding, and Jackson does so much with so little. The atmosphere, the suspense, the psychological terror - these predominate despite very little of the book having anything out of the ordinary. The apparitions, such as they are, are brief, and often left to the imagination. For example, the two women discover some sort of a ghostly picnic while out walking. But it is never described, and the reader never learns just what they saw or why it was frightening. 

The four main characters are Dr. Montague, the researcher who organizes the expedition to Hill House; Luke, the heir to the house; Theo, an artist invited because of her supposed experience of the supernatural as a child; and Eleanor, invited for the same reason, but with a more traumatic history. Eleanor is a spinster who lives with her sister and family, but is treated like a servant and never given her own space. Eleanor spent her adult life caring for her invalid mother, and now feels guilty for her mom’s death. The four arrive at Hill House determined to document their experiences. However, Eleanor becomes more involved, and feels that the house itself has called her to remain there. 

One of the reasons that the book works so well is that Jackson seems to be writing from experience, as it were. The events do not shock her but seem like something that was expected, normal (for hauntings at least), and mostly unremarkable. Her characters may find them disturbing, but their emotions are set down with the same nonchalance. In some ways, this emotional distance allows Jackson to add layers of psychological depth. 

Another technique which Jackson uses to full advantage is withholding information and doling it out gradually throughout the book. We know a little of Eleanor, but most of her background emerges gradually as the plot progresses - she reveals things in her conversations with other characters. And, in some cases, we learn things about Eleanor when other characters repeat things Eleanor apparently told them earlier. For this reason, the psychological connection between the house and Eleanor’s trauma doesn’t emerge until late in the book. She is still trying to find her mother, so to speak, and the house plays on that. 

There are a few lines worth mentioning. First is from the opening paragraph - and is repeated in the closing paragraph as well. 

Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years, and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone. 

I think this ranks in the list of best opening (and closing) lines to a book. It is certainly memorable, sets the tone, and sums up the feeling of the book at the end. 

There is also an interesting exchange between the characters early on, when they find that it is difficult to navigate the house, which appears to have been set up kind of like an onion, with layers of rooms, many of which do not have windows to the outside, and connect in unexpected directions. 

“Why did they mix themselves up so?” Theodora asked. “Why so many little odd rooms?” 

“Maybe they liked to hide from each other,” Luke said. 

Later, Montague is talking about the house, and the distinction between being “haunted” and being “sick.” The focus, in the doctor’s mind, is less on spirits, and more on the house itself. But he also notes that there are rational theories that have become popular as well. 

“What else would you call Hill House?” Luke demanded.

“Well--disturbed, perhaps. Leprous. Sick. Any of the popular euphemisms for insanity; a deranged house is a pretty conceit. There are popular theories, however, which discount the eerie, the mysterious; there are people who will tell you that the disturbances I am calling ‘psychic’ are actually the result of subterranean waters, or electric currents, or hallucinations caused by polluted air; atmospheric pressure, sun spots, earth tremors all have their advocates among the skeptical. People,” the doctor said sadly, “are always so anxious to get things out into the open where they can put a name to them, even a meaningless name, so long as it has something of a scientific ring.” 

This is rather true. Just like people from my Fundie background tend to want to assign “spiritual” explanations to everything, skeptics often insist on finding (pseudo)scientific ways of describing experiences they can’t explain. Seeing a demon behind every door isn’t that different from grasping at a rational explanation for an unexplainable experience. (I’m not going to get into it in this blog post, but there are stories I have heard from family and friends across the religious to atheist spectrum that are quite interesting - as are the attempts at explanation. And no, I am not at all prepared to offer an explanation myself.) 

In connection with this idea, one of the most puzzling yet fascinating sections in the book comes when the doctor’s wife suddenly shows up. She is a big believer in the paranormal, but...isn’t successful at experiencing it. In fact, she is the one person in the party who never experiences the manifestations. She never hears the banging, or sees the apparitions, and she can’t even feel the cold spots. There is certainly a bit of irony there. 

In addition to these themes, Jackson utilizes an obsessive repetition of a few phrases in Eleanor’s head. The most common is “Journeys end in lovers’ meeting.” At the time, I thought this was familiar, but couldn’t place it. After our club meeting, I looked it up, and discovered that it was from Twelfth Night, Shakespeare’s bizarre comedy. Namely, it is a song sung by the jester. Here is the entire song: 

The Clown, singing

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?  

O stay and hear! your true-love’s coming  

That can sing both high and low;  

Trip no further, pretty sweeting,  

Journeys end in lovers’ meeting—          

Every wise man’s son doth know.  

  

What is love? ’tis not hereafter;  

Present mirth hath present laughter;  

What’s to come is still unsure:  

In delay there lies no plenty,—          

Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,  

Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

It is a pretty normal carpe diem poem, honestly. But I guess it makes for an interesting contrast with Eleanor, who has done the opposite, letting her youth decay and never asserting herself. Until she comes to Hill House. 

There is undoubtedly more to say about the book. We had an interesting discussion, as usual (it’s a great club with thoughtful people), and I am glad to have read The Haunting of Hill House. I will definitely read the other Shirley Jackson books on my list. 

***

Just for fun, here is the list of books that our book club has read. At least the ones I have read too. Most of these were read for the club, but a few were ones I read previously - those posts pre-date the club discussion - and some I read afterward, because I missed the discussion. 

There There by Tommy Orange

Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng

Be Frank With Me by Julia Claiborne Johnson

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

Educated by Tara Westover

Stiff by Mary Roach

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

Ready Player One by Ernest Cline

The Marsh King’s Daughter by Karen Dionne

Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin

Never Mind by Edward St. Aubyn

All the Birds in the Sky by Charlie Jane Anders

Artemis by Andy Weir

Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

The Island of Doctor Moreau by H. G. Wells

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov 

The Radium Girls by Kate Moore

Poems by Edgar Allan Poe

Source of book: I own the complete poems and stories of Edgar Allan Poe

Poe wasn’t a particularly prolific poet, concentrating more on his stories. But the ones he did write contain some of the most memorable poems in the English language. Even those who can’t remember the exact lines will understand “Nevermore!” and think of the dark bird of the title. Likewise, “Annabel Lee” and “The Bells” are familiar to nearly everyone who has completed high school here in the United States. A few more may be familiar to avid lovers of poetry, but beyond that, few know the rest.

I decided to go ahead and read the entire set. The big three are, obviously, great - I really enjoyed re-reading them. However, I also enjoyed getting into the back catalogue a bit. Poe’s mastery of the rhythms and sounds of the English language make his lyrics memorable, and delightful to recite out loud. (Which is really how poetry is meant to be read. I think more people would enjoy poetry these days if they would just do it that way.)

Here are some which stood out for me this time.

To My Mother

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,

The angels, whispering to one another,

Can find, among their burning terms of love,

None so devotional as that of “Mother,”

Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—

You who are more than mother unto me,

And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you

In setting my Virginia's spirit free.

My mother—my own mother, who died early,

Was but the mother of myself; but you

Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,

And thus are dearer than the mother I knew

By that infinity with which my wife

Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

I love sonnets, so I had to include this one. I cannot confirm this, but I suspect this may well be the only poem written to a mother-in-law. My own MIL is a good one, so I understand; and Poe owed a lot to his MIL - who was also his aunt - as she often supported him and his wife during his periods of financial stress. I am pretty sure this was written after his wife died (at age 24) of tuberculosis - a tragedy that Poe never really got over, turning to alcohol to numb the pain. The poem, in any case, is a great tribute to a remarkable woman.

Poe’s poems are often dark, gloomy, and atmospheric. I might say they are the best of this genre, honestly. I found this one particularly engrossing.

Dream-Land

By a route obscure and lonely,   

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,   

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have reached these lands but newly   

From an ultimate dim Thule—

From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,

       Out of SPACE—Out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,   

And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,   

With forms that no man can discover   

For the tears that drip all over;   

Mountains toppling evermore   

Into seas without a shore;   

Seas that restlessly aspire,   

Surging, unto skies of fire;   

Lakes that endlessly outspread   

Their lone waters—lone and dead,—   

Their still waters—still and chilly   

With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread

Their lone waters, lone and dead,—

Their sad waters, sad and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily,—

By the mountains—near the river   

Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—   

By the grey woods,—by the swamp   

Where the toad and the newt encamp,—   

By the dismal tarns and pools

   Where dwell the Ghouls,—   

By each spot the most unholy—   

In each nook most melancholy,—   

There the traveller meets, aghast,   

Sheeted Memories of the Past—   

Shrouded forms that start and sigh   

As they pass the wanderer by—   

White-robed forms of friends long given,   

In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion   

’T is a peaceful, soothing region—   

For the spirit that walks in shadow   

’T is—oh, ’t is an Eldorado!

But the traveller, travelling through it,   

May not—dare not openly view it;   

Never its mysteries are exposed   

To the weak human eye unclosed;   

So wills its King, who hath forbid   

The uplifting of the fring'd lid;   

And thus the sad Soul that here passes   

Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,   

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,

On a black throne reigns upright,   

I have wandered home but newly   

From this ultimate dim Thule.

Thule, for those not up on their geographer’s mythology, is the supposed northernmost inhabited land of legend. But also of interest in this poem is the fact that this dark, sad, damp place is referred to by Poe as an Eldorado - the city of gold. To the sad soul, with a heart of woe, it does, paradoxically, serve as a utopia.

Connected with this dualism is another: the word “Eidolon.” There are two competing definitions. The first is “A specter or phantom.” In Greek mythology, this would be the human-seeming apparition of a dead - or even living - person. The second definition, though, is “An idealized person or thing.” The personified Night, ruler of this dark yet utopian land is both a ghost in human form, and an ideal. These ideas are carried through the rest of the poem too - the shades of the past, the Ghouls, the amphibians with their slimy connotation - all of this is both ephemeral and desirable. I re-read this poem a few times because I loved it so much.

I considered quoting only the less famous poems, but I had to include this one, which will always be a favorite. Again, read it out loud! Its genius is apparent when you hear and speak the sounds.

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

I’m not even going to attempt an analysis - I think it speaks for itself. But the rhythm! The repetitions, the consonances, the hesitations: it is delightful writing. I love the little touches like “pallid” and “Pallas” (referring to Athena), which is an unexpected and evocative wordplay.

Here is another that I like:

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow —

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand —

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep — while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

I think he captures that fact that while things feel real to us when they happen, our memories feel like dreams - and time passes so fast that we cannot really grasp and hold our experiences.

Also on the theme of time, and the difference between youth and age, is this little beauty.

Romance

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,

With drowsy head and folded wing,

Among the green leaves as they shake

Far down within some shadowy lake,

To me a painted paroquet

Hath been—a most familiar bird—

Taught me my alphabet to say—

To lisp my very earliest word

While in the wild wood I did lie,

A child—with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years

So shake the very Heaven on high

With tumult as they thunder by,

I have no time for idle cares

Through gazing on the unquiet sky.

And when an hour with calmer wings

Its down upon my spirit flings—

That little time with lyre and rhyme

To while away—forbidden things!

My heart would feel to be a crime

Unless it trembled with the strings.  

                                                         

The two metaphors are apt: the parakeet and the condor. I love condors, so I can just see stately glide, with no time to waste on wingbeats. And the contrast with the noisy and flighty parakeet.

This short poem caught my eye. I was unable to find any information on who it was dedicated to, but I wonder if it was one of the several women who Poe courted after his wife’s death, who broke the relationship off fearing Poe was after their money.

To ___

I heed not that my earthly lot

Hath little of Earth in it,

That years of love have been forgot

In the hatred of a minute:

I mourn not that the desolate

Are happier, sweet, than I,

But that you sorrow for my fate

Who am a passer-by.

Whatever the case, it is a sad and bitter poem.

I also want to mention the longer poems, “Ulalume” and “Tamerlane.” Both of these have fantastic language, evocative descriptions, and are worth reading in full. “Tamarlane” is about a historical figure, who makes an extended appearance in The Possessed by Elif Batuman, which I read recently, so that was a fun connection. One line was really excellent - and devastating.

You call it hope - that fire of fire!

It is but agony of desire.

A succinct and poignant thought.

Poe’s poems often have that quality of non-conformism. He sees things differently - see “Dream-Land” for just a few. Here is another where he flips the script, preferring the distant Venus to the “too cold” moon.

Evening Star

'T was noontide of summer,

    And mid-time of night;

And stars, in their orbits,

    Shone pale, thro' the light

Of the brighter, cold moon,

    'Mid planets her slaves,

Herself in the Heavens,

    Her beam on the waves.

        I gazed awhile

        On her cold smile;

Too cold- too cold for me-

    There pass'd, as a shroud,

    A fleecy cloud,

And I turned away to thee,

    Proud Evening Star,

    In thy glory afar,

And dearer thy beam shall be;

    For joy to my heart

    Is the proud part

Thou bearest in Heaven at night,

    And more I admire

    Thy distant fire,

Than that colder, lowly light.

The layout of this poem is fascinating too, changing at the fulcrum point: the cold smile of the moon.

I’ll close with this one, which is the second to last poem in the collection. I have felt different since I was a child. Too introverted. Too brainy and bookish. Too interested in music. Too emotional to be a “normal” male child. Even now, with no real place for me in organized religion any longer, I feel the difficulty of finding my tribe, so to speak. Perhaps this is why Poe speaks to me.

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring—

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow—I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone—

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still—

From the torrent, or the fountain—

From the red cliff of the mountain—

From the sun that ’round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by—

From the thunder, and the storm—

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

I’m glad I took the time to read through this collection in its entirety. Poe was a skilled writer, but I think his true soul shows more in the poems than in the stories - as fantastic as those are.

Rosemary's Baby by Ira Levin

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

This was this month’s selection for our “Literary Lush” book club. Every October, we pick a spooky book, and dress up for the occasion. (My wife made me a scrabble board shirt…)

This is one of those classic horror books that I hadn’t read. Actually, I haven’t read any Ira Levin - his other major work was The Stepford Wives, which has certainly become part of our cultural background. 

The basic plot is fairly simple. Young couple moves to new apartment in an old building with a history of tragic events. They become friends with an eccentric older couple on the same floor. The wife becomes pregnant under odd circumstances, has a painful and difficult pregnancy, and ends up giving birth to the Devil’s spawn.

For me, the most interesting part of the book was the way that, until the very end, there are multiple explanations for the events that do not involve the supernatural, and these explanations are actually more plausible.

It is apparent, for example, that Rosemary’s husband, Guy, is a self-centered jerk. As the book goes on, his behavior definitely veers into abuse and control. I am not sure how this would have played in 1967, but it seems pretty creepy now.

Added to that is the fact that Rosemary seems to be going somewhat crazy throughout the pregnancy. In fact, if it weren’t for Guy’s suspicious actions, it would be hard to come to any other conclusion. Well, that and the fact that nobody takes her pain seriously. My wife the nurse, however, pointed out that even now, women’s pain is all too often dismissed with a pat on the head as what they used to call “hysteria” - insanity from the uterus. (A friend suggested we need to use “testerical” for guys acting nutty. I like it.)

The book itself had some odd quirks. For example, an inordinate amount of time was spent on things like the layout of the rooms, the process of selecting furniture, and a certain closet. I assumed that these would, in some way, play a part in the story. Except they didn’t. There was never really any explanation in the second half of the book.

Another weird thing was the character of Terry, who briefly appears, then is killed off. One assumes that she was the original choice for the Devil Baby, but either kills herself or is killed. Again, practically no explanation later in the book, which seemed odd. Maybe I am just used to authors who don’t mention details that aren’t important to the story. Kind of like Chekhov and his guns - you know if one appears, it will be fired.

One final detail led me to a bit of a rabbit trail, which I figure I will inflict on you as well. “Tannis Root” plays a big role in the plot. It is the stinky core of a charm which is initially worn by Terry, then by Rosemary. As I suspected, it doesn’t actually exist in reality, but does have a symbolic meaning. The association of the city of Tanis, Egypt, which does exist, has long been associated with the Devil and demons in general. This association dates back a long time, to the 2nd Century CE and the works of Justin Martyr. In developing a fairly detailed system of demonology, Martyr cites both the iconic story of the Fall of Lucifer in Isaiah (which is a fairly obvious appropriation and reuse of the root story that also became the Greco-Roman myth of Phaethon) and other passages in Isaiah which purport to tell of evil rulers in Tanis. Thus, Martyr builds the idea that the fallen angels congregate in Tanis. This whole edifice depends on a mistranslation of the Hebrew text in the Septuagint. You can read a rather long explanation here if you like. But essentially, you have a story of earthly rulers taking on divine titles (hubris, yes?) and suffer a catastrophic fall (nemesis), which is then made into proof of the idea of rebellious angels, then a mistranslation placing them in Tanis, and then the use of Tanis as a shorthand for demonic activity. From there, you can look at a long history of the Tanis/Satan connection in literature and theological writing. The final connection here is the “tanna” plant, another fictional plant used in early mummy movies. It isn’t clear if this was expressly a reference to Tanis or not, but the similarity certainly could (and did) lead to a conflation of the Tanis/Devil connection and the Tanna/Devils Weed idea. So there you have it.

This was a fairly light read, which is kind of the idea for Spooky Lush - something even the less serious book nuts in our club can enjoy, and one which gives a good theme for food and costumes. Given that the book - and even more so the movie - are part of our culture, it is a good thing that I read it. I should probably do the same for The Stepford Wives one of these days.

***

For those who care to follow along, here are the books that I have read for our club. Camping and music schedules have made me miss a number of months, although my wife has attended more - she started first as well, before talking me into going. It’s been a blast.

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

The Island of Doctor Moreau by H. G. Wells

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer

Artemis by Andy Weir

All the Birds in the Sky by Charlie Jane Anders

Never Mind by Edward St. Aubyn

One of the best things about the club is reading books that probably would never have come to my attention otherwise.

***

By popular demand: the Scrabble Board costume.

 

Reading A Christmas Carol with my Kids

Source of book: I own several copies. See below for notes on the edition.

Every year, for the last five years, I have spent the week after our insane week of rehearsals and performances of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker ballet reading one of Charles Dickens’ Christmas novels. Last year, I read the last in the series, The Haunted Man. My review of that book resulted in the first print publication of my writing. (I now have a weekly column for our local bar association’s newsletter. No, I don’t make a dime off it, but it starts conversations, which is surprisingly fun.) This year, I decided to introduce my children to the joys of Charles Dickens.

My first introduction to Dickens was when I was about 9 or 10. My mother loved David Copperfield, and read it to us as soon as she thought we could understand it. My sister must have been about 6, so I figured my girls at least would be ready. So yes, I came from a weird family, and am doing my best to carry on the family tradition.

We read this over a period of four days. The book itself is divided into five sections, labeled “Staves”. (A stave is one of the five lines in a musical staff. It’s a carol. Get it? All of the Christmas novels have some sort of internal reference in the chapter headings.) The last section, the epilogue, is short, so I combined it with the previous section on the last day.

I admit I had a great deal of fun using proper voices for this book. Grouchy old Scrooge is particularly fun, as are Marley and the Christmas Ghosts. That part of the story was easy for the kids. Where it got harder was when Dickens described the past and future events. The references are a bit elliptical, to say the least – best understood if one has both knowledge of the nineteenth century and familiarity with Dickens’ writing style. I had to stop every few paragraphs and give the kids a synopsis of what was really going on. Fortunately, they have good attention spans and were willing to let the story unfold slowly. Ok, so Fritz fell asleep a few times, but he is only three.

Since I became a parent, I have been amazed at how early children develop a sense of justice. This develops far more quickly than their speech. They know they have been slighted, even when all they can do is scream about it. Thus, Scrooge, with his “humbug” and “surplus population” and all was instantly a compelling character. So too were the ghosts, with each his unique appearance and voice. Or lack thereof. The final ghost is spookiest of all because all he does is point.

I imagine most people are already familiar with the plot. I did some online research last year, and found over a dozen movies based on this book. I even suspect that more people could recite the plot than could coherently give the original Christmas story. This is, after all, one of the most memorable plots of all time.

If you have not read this, what on earth are you waiting for? It is roughly 100 pages – easily readable in a few evenings. It is also a good introduction to the good and the flawed aspects of Dickens’ writing.

As a follow up, the kids and I watched A Muppet Christmas Carol this evening. While no substitute for reading the real thing, this version is remarkably true to the original in both substance and spirit. Having read the book immediately prior, I was impressed again with how many of the best lines from the book made it directly into the movie – a movie aimed at children, no less! The two versions I am partial to are the Alistair Sim rendition, Scrooge (1951) and the Muppet movie. Despite their different approaches, they best capture that actual spirit of the book.

Anyway, the kids remembered the plot exceedingly well by the time we got to the movie. I was impressed that Ella particularly had carefully noted what each ghost looked like, and was able to point out to Fritz who all the characters were. Perhaps next year we will read this one again, or continue with The Cricket on the Hearth.

For tonight, I will go to bed with the memory of the sound of Fritz saying, “Ebenee Scooge” and “Fozziwig”.

Notes on the edition:

I own at least three copies of this book. The first is part of a Heritage Books collection of Dickens that I have collected over the last 20 years. I received my first few from Dale Brooks, who was kind enough to introduce me to both P. G. Wodehouse and Anthony Trollope when I was a teen. The five Christmas novels were one of these first books. The second is part of the Reader’s Digest hardback series The World’s Best Reading. These should not be confused with the condensed books from the same publisher. These are all unabridged classics in a good quality hardback binding. I have collected nearly 100 of these one at a time from used book stores, eBay, thrift stores, and library sales. My first was Twain’s The Innocents Abroad, which is still one of my favorite books. The last is the edition that we read from this time. Published by Candlewick Press, it was a gift from my mother-in-law several years ago. (This alone should tell you how blessed I am to have her as a relative.) This book is gorgeously illustrated on at least every other page. Usually, I am disappointed by the modern illustrations in Dickens, being partial to the originals by “Phiz” and George Cruikshank and others. (A good website for the originals is: http://charlesdickenspage.com/illustrations.html) In this book, P. J. Lynch as done an excellent job of capturing the nuance of the prose. Each character looks precisely as he or she should, but with a more modern feel to the backgrounds and atmosphere. I can highly recommend this edition as an excellent hardback and an essential part of any serious library. 

The Collected Stories by Isaac Bashevis Singer

This is the review that started it all.
Date originally posted: April 29, 2010
Source of Book: Originally borrowed from the library. I eventually purchased a hardback set of I.B.S.'s stories.

This collection contains 47 short stories, about 1/3 of the total written.

I read this book because my wife Amanda was familiar with the author and collection, and checked it out from the library for me. As it turned out, I had read a couple of them before, probably during High School.

Singer was a Polish born Jew who wrote primarily in Yiddish, although he was fluent in several other languages. Many of these stories were translated into English by Singer himself.

Those who know my literary tastes will not be surprised that I am fascinated by the short story form. I feel that it forces the author to distil his thinking into a compact, efficient space; jettisoning the unnecessary, while focusing on the essential.

Singer shows influence from Maupassant, among others, both in the descriptive details, and the pessimistic outlook he brings to many of the stories.

The stories can be roughly assigned to four categories:

1. Naturalistic stories of Jewish life in Poland. These resemble Fiddler on the Roof in many ways, although the subject matter is grittier as a general rule.
2. Stories of the supernatural, as seen through the lens of the Kabbalah and other Jewish myths. Dybbuks, visions, and miracles are mixed with realistic details, somewhat in the style of Magical Realism.
3. Stories of Jewish life in the United States. I couldn’t help but think that this is how O Henry would have written if he were a cantankerous old Jewish man. The hustle and bustle of the city, the tenements, the poverty. It is all there. Now add apartments piled to the ceiling with books and papers, a general dislike for contact with the outside world, an isolation (by language and culture) from greater society leading to an ever shrinking community of old men who speak Yiddish and discuss the Talmud.
4. “Autobiographical” stories. These are written from a first person perspective, using pseudonyms for the secondary characters. It is impossible to tell whether these are really true to Singer’s life, or merely told from the perspective of someone like him. In any case, these are fascinating studies of love lost, or perhaps never really found. It is never stated when exactly these were written, but the perspective is that of an old man, who has lost much of his potency, desire, which has been replaced by indecision and occasionally even apathy.

As a general rule, Singer does an excellent job of drawing you into the world of his stories, making you care about his characters, even when they seem of a different world. He resists the temptation to get preachy (although his characters sometimes do preach), and allows the reader either to draw his own conclusions, or wonder if there is a real solution at all.
He also writes well in all four of the categories above. The differences between stories are so great that you could easily assume that they were written by different authors. Yet each one draws you in.

I also appreciated that there were very few weak stories in this collection, and very little repeating of scenarios or plot devices. The collection was well selected and arranged so that you did not feel that you were getting bogged down.

I would recommend this book for those who enjoy short stories, realistic (and yet often fantastic) characters, and those who are looking for something a bit off the beaten path.